


Perfect Smoke

by chocochurros



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Marijuana, Poetry, Tragedy, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:25:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocochurros/pseuds/chocochurros
Summary: I can’t focus on the beautiful cold at the moment because the soundtrack I’ve subconsciously chosen for this moment is thumping with a frantic bass, drumming my heart up faster and faster and bouncing my leg rapidly up and down as I try to figure out what I'm going to do.//Cool it. Chill, chill, chill, chill, chill. She’s right beside you, stop looking stressed. She’ll think you can’t handle a challenge. Right, right, right. Relax, relax, relax. I take a deep, deep breath and try to let myself go slack, but - well, trying to relax is a paradox, isn’t it? I’m breathing too fast for it to be natural, but I hope Audrey won’t notice, or I’m screwed.//It takes me a few moments to notice the darker smoke carefully twining itself around my breath, intermingling. It’s beautiful how the greys tease each other until they eventually interlace and blend into something invisible, something that looks like it’s flying, carefree, into the endless sky.





	Perfect Smoke

It’s maybe about 4:30 PM on a gellid December day. Waiting for the bus. Frozen puffs of winter breath rising around the two of us, fighting to stay together before ultimately dissipating, scattering. Picturesque, beautiful. It would’ve been the perfect time to just sit there and chill, watching the short-lived vapor, were it not for my backpack weighing me down from where it sat beside me, an untouched two feet away. I hadn’t looked at it since dumping it there on the sidewalk, and hadn’t opened it since hastily shoving the rubric for a new school project in there right after my equally hasty lunch. Between rehearsals for the school play, lessons, homework, extra credit, debate, the school newspaper, and helping at home (I had already given up on a social life), I had no idea how I was supposed to make a full ten-minute documentary on climate change by February 5th. I’d known what I was signing up for when I chose the accelerated program, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so  _ hard _ ; I guess I’d sort of figured that everything would work out fine because I was the main character somehow, or maybe because the storyboard would make things plain and simple. 

I sometimes disregard my feelings in-the-moment because I’m too busy imagining montages for the important parts, complete with background music and perfectly-filmed, meaningful sweeping shots. I romanticize everything in my life; and right now, that’s what’s tearing me apart about this project. My inner director/producer is simultaneously relishing in the prospective triumph of a perfect presentation to my classmates and lining up the frames for a humiliating defeat to reflect upon later. I can’t focus on the beautiful cold at the moment because the soundtrack I’ve subconsciously chosen for this moment is thumping with a frantic bass, drumming my heart up faster and faster and bouncing my leg rapidly up and down as I try to figure out what I'm going to do. I’m not having a panic attack or anything, but I am definitely freaking out; how am I going to get this done? I certainly can’t skip any more school, and I won’t have time at any point after 6 because my mom needs my help at home; I could cut even more into my sleep time, but I already feel like a zombie half the time as it was and that doesn't seem like a viable solution; I can’t stop anything now, I  _ can't can't can't can't - _

_ Shhhhhhhhh.  _

_ Cool it. Chill, chill, chill, chill, chill. She’s right beside you, stop looking stressed. She’ll think you can’t handle a challenge. _ Right, right, right. Relax, relax, relax. I take a deep, deep breath and try to let myself go slack, but - well, trying to relax is a paradox, isn’t it? I’m breathing too fast for it to be natural, but I hope Audrey won’t notice, or I’m screwed. 

Lean back, stare up, half-lidded eyes or the wind will make you start to tear up. Focus on the little clouds spiraling up around you. Look how peaceful they are; so perfectly content to drift. They don’t try to change what they know will happen. Why should I?

There, isn’t that nice; but the rest of me doesn't want to keep watching the floating gray and the rest of me is shaking, convinced that I’m wasting time. My hand-stuffed pockets are sweaty and the rest of me has been painted cold by the nippy edge of winter. Maybe shivering is better to describe what I’m doing; maybe I should have worn something heavier than a hoodie today. 

I continue to gaze blankly up at the little frozen wisps orbiting above my head. Maybe I should be working right now instead of waiting, but I know that the bus would come the second I took out my homework.

It takes me a few moments to notice the darker smoke carefully twining itself around my breath, intermingling. It’s beautiful how the greys tease each other until they eventually interlace and blend into something invisible, something that looks like it’s flying, carefree, into the endless sky. My heart slows down slightly; I almost don’t want to know where the fumes are coming from, but -

“Audrey? Wh-where’s that… Is something on fire - ?” My pulse jumps right back to where it was before. I hadn’t thought of that I  _ hadn’t thought of that _ , what if Audrey’s hair was on fire what if a house behind us was on fire what if the bus had pulled up while I wasn’t looking and I’d been too lost in my own thoughts to notice and that was the exhaust and I would be late or  _ what if the bus had crashed, what if it was terrorists  _ -

I twist back to glance at Audrey, expecting mirrored confusion; but instead, I see something I could never have predicted, something I never thought I’d see anywhere but in a movie or a piece of Dear Evan Hansen fanart. The unmistakable shape of a - a _ joint  _ loosely balances itself between slack fingers - !  _ Call the cops this is illegal - _ Twisted off at her end and glowing enticingly on mine. The embers of an otherworldly fire, brilliant yellow outlining the delicate, gray tissue of the interior, and I can  _ smell  _ it. It smells sweet and leafy; it smells like I imagine a bar or strip club would smell like; it smells like slow breaths and beautiful smoke; it smells like a mystery. It smells like tomorrow and yesterday together, like a blurry harp played at a coffee house by someone who doesn’t care, scaling up and down as a hazy purple voice croons in the background; it smells like musk and understanding and like a good time that lasts forever. It smells like the words “vibe” and “utopic” and “perfect” and “anywhere” and “forever” and “fade” and “deep” and “midnight” and “lullaby” and “elusive” and “ _ begin” _ and like how the city view from a midnight balcony makes my heart wrench. It smells like neon signs and closing time, like back streets I’ve gone down before and like how lofi hop sounds to my brain; it smells like a background beat and camaraderie and somehow, inexplicably, like  _ Audrey. _

And she puffs it like it’s a cigarette, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, looking so casual and so together that I almost don’t want to question it, I almost don’t want to feel scared or shocked, I almost don't want to be quivering like a leaf and starting to reach for my phone to call someone, anyone. Part of my heart jumps into my throat and the other explodes in shades of red and pink when I see how the smoke flirts with her dainty fingers and curls around her glossy, auburn hair; how it mutes her to the perfect shade, outlines every perfect straight edge and curve of her body. It feels so ancient and timeless and  _ perfect _ , and the most endless feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, twinging; and then it spreads to a little further down. 

All of this happens in the span of about one and a half seconds, just as she’s looking over at me, quizzical, her lips poised to answer. I stutter like an idiot.

“Oh! Uh… I - I - d-didn’t know you smoked, ha.” I cringe at how unsteady my voice comes out, like I’ve never done Mary Jane before - which I haven’t, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She raises an eyebrow, but not skeptically - or at least, my mushy, Audrey-drenched brain doesn’t think she’s being skeptical. It’s like she thinks I’m adorable. The corner of her mouth quirks up. It’s kind of hot.

And then she shrugs casually and takes another hit as I watch, entranced. I can hear the background beat start to play; slow, unrushed cymbals and vague piano, twining together just like how my breath was doing with her smoke before, gentle brushes tapping out a heartfelt, wordless rhythm. Just watching her puff makes me feel relaxed, it makes the whole block twist from my crappy, everyday bus stop on a blue-grey December school day to something magical as a glowing, crepuscular curtain washes over the block; even the air feels warmer. 

Part of me objects and says it’s wrong, says the smoke is intruding and illegal, but the swelling chillhop beat is too strong. I can still feel myself shaking and I want what the smoke has; I want to be able to curl and take the shape of the wind. I want to drift like that, I want to croon. I want to be allured. I want to be enchanted like that.

She exhales slightly from her nose, in amusement, I assume.

“You wanna try? You seem pretty on-edge.” A thin stream of billowing magic follows her voice out of her mouth, jellyfishing upwards until it melts into the sky. “Why don't you take a hit, relax a bit?”

This is it. This is the moment those cliche “just say no" PSAs warned me about... But this isn't a documentary, this is my own life. And more importantly, it's  _ Audrey's _ life, and she wants to give me a taste of her perfect smoke; this is  _ real life _ . This is  _ really happening! _ And since when does movie logic apply to real life when there's all this enticing purple smoke intoxicating me? What’s the worst that could happen?

I silence the part of me that didn’t explode into bleeding red and pink a moment ago and let the lofi play louder, trying not to nod too eagerly. I’ve got to look aloof, like this is nothing new; like I don’t care either way. When she hands it to me, of course, the way I cough as the first lungful enters me gives me away, but I suck it up, both literally and figuratively. Something feels amazing; something feels like I’m listening to a storm blow outside while I sit back and don’t care. It feels like how beautiful a lonely streetlamp is at midnight, but I don't feel alone. I feel more surrounded by friends than I ever have in my life.

I look back at Audrey to see what she thinks and I take in how wide her pupils are. Mine are probably dilated, too, at this point, but I’m not sure if I even care. I’m breathing deeper than I ever have in my life and a sense of deep calm and peace is settling in my stomach, like the kief itself is sleeping there. It feels like I drank the sunset and it’s colored my insides ocean blue.

We pass the joint back and forth for a few minutes, wordless, until it’s finally burned to a stub, which Audrey takes to dispose of. An ever-shrinking part of me, the  _ old _ me, is screeching about cops and smoke and pupils and school while the rest is looking up at an imaginary, liquid sky and thanking whatever’s up there for whatever I just did for the past fifteen minutes or so; and praying that I could do it again. However long it was, I couldn’t care less; it felt like a blissful eternity, one that transcended the need for words or emotions other than complacency. One that brought warmth to the freezing cold of winter, one that made Audrey's idle amusement with me explode into the glowing heart of an eternal, flaming passion; and maybe she'd been ensnared with me, too, in that moment when we let the smoke do the talking, when we let ourselves swim in an ocean of vapor. When we let go for once.

I don't even care. For the first time since I can't remember when; and with the lofi beat still slowing my heart, bringing it to a passive background beat, I can imagine doing this forever. 

It’s nice not to care. I should try it more often.

 

The next few months pass in a haze of smoke and joints and Audrey. I can feel myself sinking into it; I can feel my life becoming not the life of someone who’s always worried, like it used to be, but instead that of someone who lets his heartbeat intertwine with Audrey’s, who lets himself relax and drift and smell the five-leafed roses. The project never gets finished or even begun, and the school sends letters that I have to crumple up before my mom sees them - she’s overworked enough as it is - but it’s far worth it to lay back like this and let myself float, to let the world warp while something mystical plays in the background. I don’t need words for this; I don’t stutter anymore because I rarely speak at all. Audrey and I start meeting in her basement to Relax, as we call it. Time becomes a montage of slow fingers snapping and lazy, smoke-filled afternoons - and soon evenings and mornings, as well. It’s so wonderful to be mindless; I’m willing to give anything up not to have to think. To let Audrey and I slowly drift closer in the timeless smoke, to let everything go and to let our souls intertwine. It’s beautiful. I find myself kissing her on the lips, and I find her kissing me back. I’m not the same boy - am I a man now? I can’t find it in me to care - I was at the beginning of this year. I’m slow and calm, and I don’t care. The best part is after each toke is done and we just lie there in Audrey’s always-empty house, breathing it in, letting it in through our lungs and fall through our bodies. It’s glorious stardust from the Gods, working magic that only music, jazz, and lofi could get close to in another world. The part of me that was outraged is silent because there’s no conflict anymore; the only thing in my world is perfect smoke. And Audrey, but she’s part of that. Schoolwork doesn’t matter in the long run; grades don’t matter, college doesn’t matter, jobs don’t matter. All that matters is that gentle piano playing in the background with a crooning violin and a high harp-player that doesn’t care, and Audrey; consciousness fading in and out in a magnificent rhythm; and all of us can see the slow beauty because we’re all part of it. That magical leaf connects us. It makes us better than anyone else; it lets us see what others can’t. It lets me see how beautiful Audrey is, and it lets her think I’m perfect, too. I don’t think she liked the old me, and I don’t think I did either. This is so much better. This is perfect and this will last forever, I’m sure of it; that’s the only thing I care enough about to be sure of anymore. Endless bliss plays with the tip of my tongue, but the words are far enough away that I don’t need them. All I need is this, and this will last forever.

 

It's a crisp March morning, maybe 4:30 or so AM, and there’s a man I’ve never seen before at the door. “The” door being Audrey’s door, of course; I rarely spend time anywhere else now. If I were a little more sober, I might have seen him give me a skeptical once-over just after I opened the door, but in all the smoke filling my brain, all I can see through it is love; love blanketing the world. Complete content. 

“Hey, I’m Audrey’s dealer.” He does seem like one, complete with a scrubby hoodie not unlike my own and a two - well, four o’clock shadow. I wonder why I never asked Audrey where she got her goods from; there was no need to, I suppose. There was no need for anything.

“Should I go get her?” I slur. 

“No, stay here. I need to show you something. Lean a little cl-closer.”

“You wanna… Come inside? It’s nice and warm.” He shifts uncomfortably, his hands stuffed in his pockets. I used to do that a lot, didn't I?

“N-no thanks. Just lean closer, I’ve… I've got something for you.” I see no reason not to comply, bending forward to see whatever it is. Weird way to introduce yourself, but weird doesn’t always mean bad, if there’s anything I’ve learned lately.

Handcuffs are snapped around my unwary hands; I can only vaguely protest, too weighed down by my laden, mushy head and heavy, cannabis-slowed arms. 

           “W-what? Is - is this a j- a jo - a - a - “

“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine. “You’re a good kid and it’s my f-first day on the job. I - I hope you can forgive me.” He shows me his badge apologetically, his face crumpling.

I can’t tell if I’m crying or not, and I can’t decide if this is even more surreal than the rest of the past few months or the only real thing that’s ever happened to me. And I can’t tell if he’s crying, too, but I think he might be.

“A-Audrey?” I ask, unable to articulate what I want to say. And the last few months come crashing back down on me like the beat dropping after an ethereal, lifted pause, and I fall down onto my knees. 

_ What have I done to myself. What happened to my dreams? When was the last time I talked to my mother? I’d lost her somewhere in the curling smoke. What have I  _ done?  _ Why couldn’t I stay in a smokey dreamland forever? And for  _ what?

I’m definitely crying now, like the young teenager I am, and this new cop looks like he is, too. He can’t be more than two years older than I am. 

“Sh-she’ll be joining you in a little while, don’t worry. W - you’re - You know where you’re going, right?”

How can I do anything but nod? That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

I keep nodding all the way to my cell. I went so far not to think and now I’ve brought myself to a place where my thoughts are all I’ll have;  _ what the f*&# have I  _ done _? _

When Audrey arrives, she doesn’t look at me. Our backs face each other. There’s no music playing, no smoke, no anything to take the hard edge of reality I had learned to hate away. 

Maybe that’s how it should have been from the beginning.


End file.
